Car Sinister

by Robert Silverberg

The others in the small theatre were stretching and getting ready to leave and I gradually unwound and got to my feet, still feeling shaky. “Lucky you could make it, Jim,” a voice graveled in my ear. “You missed Joe Moore and the lecture but the documentary was just great, really great. Next week we’ve got Meadowdale ’73, which has its moments but you don’t feel like you’re really there and getting an eyeful of cinders, if you know what I mean.”

  “Who’s Joe Moore?” I mumbled.

  “Old time race track manager—full of anecdotes, knew all the great drivers. Hey! You okay?”

  I was finding it difficult to come out of it. The noise and the action and the smell, but especially the feeling of actually driving . . . It was more than just a visceral response. You had to be raised down in the flats where you struggled for your breath every day to get the same feeling of revulsion, the same feeling of having done something dirty . . . “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said. “I’m feeling fine.”

  “Where’d you say you were from, anyway?”

  “Bosnywash,” I lied. He nodded and I took a breath and time out to size him up. Jack Ellis was bigger and heavier than Pearson and not nearly as smooth or as polished—Pearson perspired, my bulky friend sweated. He was in his early fifties, thinning brown hair carefully waved, the beginning of a small paunch well hidden by a lot of expensive tailoring, and a hulking set of shoulders that were much more than just padding. A business bird, I thought. The hairy-chested genial backslapper . . .

  “You seen the clubrooms yet?”

  “I just got in,” I said. “First time here.”

  “Hey, great! I’ll show you around!” He talked like he was programmed. “A little fuel and a couple of stiff belts first, though—dining room’s out of this world . . .”

  And it almost was. We were on the eighty-seventh floor of the new Trans-America building and Ellis had secured a window seat. Above, the sky was almost as bright a blue as Monte had used in his paintings. I couldn’t see the street below.

  “Have a card,” Ellis said, shoving the pasteboard at me. It read Warshawsky & Warshawsky, Automotive Antiques, with an address in the Avenues. He waved a hand at the room. “We decorated all of this—pretty classy, huh?”

  I had to give him that. The walls were covered with murals of old road races, while from some hidden sound system came a faint, subdued purring—the roaring of cars drifting through the esses of some long-ago race. In the center of the room was a pedestal holding a highly-chromed engine block that slowly revolved under a baby spot. While I was admiring the setting a waitress came up and set down a lazy Susan; it took a minute to recognize it as an old-fashioned wooden steering wheel, fitted with sterling silver hors d’oeuvre dishes between the spokes.

  Ellis ran a thick thumb down the menu. “Try a Barney Oldfield,” he suggested. “Roast beef and American cheese on pumpernickel.”

  While I was eating I got the uncomfortable feeling that he was looking me over and that somehow I didn’t measure up. “You’re pretty young,” he said at last. “We don’t get many young members—or visitors, for that matter.”

  “Grandfather was a dealer,” I said easily. “Had a Ford agency in Milwaukee—I guess it rubbed off.”

  He nodded around a mouthful of sandwich and looked mournful for a moment. “It used to be a young man’s game, kids worked on engines in their backyards all the time. Just about everybody owned a car ..

  “You, too?”

  “Oh sure—hell, the old man ran a gas station until Turn-In Day.” He was lost in his memories for a moment, then said, “You got a club in Bosnywash?”

  “A few, nothing like this,” I said cautiously. “And the law’s pretty stiff.” I nodded at the window. “They get pretty uptight about the air back east . . .” I let my voice trail off.

  He frowned. “You don’t believe all that guff, do you? Biggest goddamn pack of lies there ever was, but I guess you got to be older to know it. Power plants and incinerators, they’re the ones to blame, always have been. Hell, people, too—every time you exhale you’re polluting the atmosphere, ever think of that? And Christ, man, think of every time you work up a sweat . . .”

  “Sure,” I nodded, “sure, it’s always been blown up.” I made a mental note that someday I’d throw the book at Ellis.

  He finished his sandwich and started wiping his fat face like he was erasing a blackboard. “What’s your interest? Mine’s family sedans, the old family workhorse. Fords, Chevys, Plymouths—got a case of all the models from ‘50 on up, one eighteenth scale. How about you?”

  I didn’t answer him, just stared out the window and worked with a toothpick for a long time until he began to get a little nervous. Then I let it drop. “I’m out here to buy a car,” I said.

  His face went blank, as if somebody had just pulled down a shade. “Damned expensive hobby,” he said, ignoring it. “Should’ve taken up photography instead.”

  “It’s for a friend of mine,” I said. “Money’s no object.”

  The waitress came around with the check and Ellis initialed it. “Damned expensive,” he repeated vaguely.

  “I couldn’t make a connection back home,” I said. “Friends suggested I try out here.”

  He was watching me now. “How would you get it back east?”

  “Break it down,” I said. “Ship it east as crates of machine parts.”

  “What makes you think there’s anything for sale out here?”

  I shrugged. “Lots of mountains, lots of forests, lots of empty space, lots of hiding places. Cars were big out here, there must have been a number that were never turned in.”

  “You’re a stalking horse for somebody big, aren’t you!”

  “What do you think?” I said. “And what difference does it make anyway? Money’s money.”

  If it’s true that the pupil of the eye expands when it sees something that it likes, it’s also true that it contracts when it doesn’t—and right then his were in the cold buckshot stage.

  “All right,” he finally said. “Cash on the barrelhead and remember, when you have that much money changing hands, it can get dangerous.” He deliberately leaned across the table so that his coat flapped open slightly. The small gun and holster were almost lost against the big man’s girth. He sat back and spun the lazy Susan with a fat forefinger, spearing an olive as it slid past. “You guys run true to form,” he continued quietly. “Most guys from back east come out to buy—I guess we’ve got a reputation.” He hesitated. “We also try and take all the danger out of it.”

  He stood up and slapped me on the back as I pushed to my feet. It was the old Jack Ellis again, he of the instant smile and the sparkling teeth.

  “That is, we try and take the danger out of it for us,” he added pleasantly.

  It was late afternoon and the rush hour had started. It wasn’t as heavy as usual—businesses had been letting out all day—but it was bad enough. I slipped on a mask and started walking toward the warehouse section of town, just outside the business district. The buses were too crowded and it would be impossible to get an electricab that time of day. Besides, traffic was practically standing still in the steamy murk. Headlights were vague yellow dots in the gathering darkness and occasionally I had to shine my pocket flash on a street sign to determine my location.

  I had checked in with Monte, who said the hospitals were filling up fast with bronchitis victims; I didn’t ask about the city morgue. The venal bastards at Air Shed Number Three were even getting worried; they had promised Monte that if it didn’t clear by morning, he could issue his alert and close down the city. I told him I had uncovered what looked like a car ring but he sounded only faintly interested. He had bigger things on his mind; the ball was in my court and what I was going to do with it was strictly up to me.

  A few more blocks and the crowds thinned. Then I was alone on the street with the warehouses hulking up in the gloom around me, ancient monsters of discolored brick and concrete layered with years of soot and grime. I found the address
I wanted, leaned against the buzzer by the loading dock door, and waited. There was a long pause, then faint steps echoed inside and the door slid open. Ellis stood in the yellow dock light, the smile stretching across his thick face like a rubber band. “Right on time,” he whispered. “Come on in, Jim, meet the boys,”

  I followed him down a short passageway, trying not to brush up against the filthy whitewashed walls. Then we were up against a steel door with a peephole. Ellis knocked three times, the peephole opened, and he said, “Joe sent me.” I started to panic. For God’s sake, why the act? Then the door opened and it was as if somebody had kicked me in the stomach. What lay beyond was a huge garage with at least half a dozen ancient cars on the tool-strewn floor. Three mechanics in coveralls were working under the overhead lights; two more were waiting inside the door. They were bigger than Ellis and I was suddenly very glad I had brought along the Mark II.

  “Jeff, Ray, meet Mr. Morrison.” I held out my hand. They nodded at me, no smiles. “C’mon,” Ellis said, “I’ll show you the set-up.” I tagged after him and he started pointing out the wonders of his domain. “Completely equipped garage—my old man would’ve been proud of me. Overhead hoist for pulling motors, complete lathe set-up . . . a lot of parts we have to machine ourselves, can’t get the originals anymore and of course the last of the junkers was melted down a long time ago.” He stopped by a workbench with a large rack full of tools gleaming behind it. “One of the great things about being in the antique business—you hit all the country auctions and you’d be surprised at what you can pick up. Complete sets of torque wrenches, metric socket sets, spanner wrenches, feeler gauges, you name it.”

  I looked over the bench—he was obviously proud of the assortment of tools—then suddenly felt the small of my back grow cold. It was phony, I thought, the whole thing was phony. But I couldn’t put my finger on just why.

  Ellis walked over to one of the automobiles on the floor and patted a fender affectionately. Then he unbuttoned his coat so that the pistol showed, hooked his thumbs in his vest, leaned against the car behind him and smiled. Someplace he had even found a broomstraw to chew on.

  “So what can we do for you, Jim? Limited stock, sky-high prices, but never a dissatisfied customer!” He poked an elbow against the car behind him. “Take a look at this ’73 Chevy Biscayne, probably the only one of its kind in this condition in the whole damned country. Ten thou and you can have it—and that’s only because I like you.” He sauntered over to a monster in blue and silver with grill-work that looked like a set of kitchen knives. “Or maybe you’d like a ’76 Caddy convertible, all genuine simulated-leather upholstery, one of the last of the breed.” He didn’t add why but I already knew—in heavy traffic the high levels of monoxide could be fatal to a driver in an open car.

  “Yours,” Ellis was saying about another model, “for a flat fifteen”—he paused and shot me a friendly glance—“oh hell, for you, Jim, make it twelve and a half and take it from me, it’s a bargain. Comes with the original upholstery and tires and there’s less than ten thousand miles on it—the former owner was a little old lady in Pasadena who only drove it to weddings.”

  He chuckled at that, looking at me expectantly. I didn’t get it. “Maybe you’d just like to look around. Be my guest, go right ahead.” His eyes were bright and he looked very pleased with himself; it bothered me.

  “Yeah,” I said absently, “I think that’s what I’d like to do.” There was a wall phone by an older model and I drifted over to it.

  “That’s an early Knudsen two-seater,” Ellis said. “Popular make for the psychedelic set, that paint job is the way they really came . . .”

  I ran my hand lightly down the windshield, then turned to face the cheerful Ellis. “You’re under arrest,” I said. “You and everybody else here.”

  His face suddenly looked like shrimp in molded gelatin. One of the mechanics behind him moved and I had the Mark II out winging a rocket past his shoulder. No noise, no recoil, just a sudden shower of sparks by the barrel and in the far end of the garage a fifty-gallon oil drum went karrump and there was a hole in it you could have stuck your head through.

  The mechanic went white. “Jesus Christ, Jack, you brought in some kind of nut!” Ellis himself was pale and shaking, which surprised me; I thought he’d be tougher than that.

  “Against the bench,” I said coldly, waving the pistol. “Hands in front of your crotch and don’t move them.” The mechanics were obviously scared stiff and Ellis was having difficulty keeping control. I took down the phone and called in.

  After I hung up, Ellis mumbled, “What’s the charge?”

  “Charges,” I corrected. “Sections three, four, and five of the Air Control laws. Maintenance, sale, and use of internal-combustion engines.”

  Ellis stared at me blankly. “You don’t know?” he asked faintly.

  “Know what?”

  “I don’t handle internal-combustion engines.” He licked his lips. “I really don’t, it’s too risky, it’s—it’s against the law.”

  The workbench, I suddenly thought. The goddamned workbench. I knew something was wrong then, I should have cooled it.

  “You can check me,” Ellis offered weakly. “Lift a hood, look for yourself.”

  He talked like his face was made of panes of glass sliding against one another. I waved him forward. “You check it, Ellis, you open one up.” Ellis nodded like a dipping duck, waddled over to one of the cars, jiggled something inside, then raised the hood and stepped back.

  I took one glance and my stomach slowly started to knot up. I was no motor buff but I damned well knew the difference between a gasoline engine and water boiler. Which explained the workbench—the tools had been window dressing. Most of them were brand new because most of them had obviously never been used. There had been nothing to use them on.

  “The engines are steam,” Ellis said, almost apologetically. “Pve got a license to do restoration work and drop in steam engines. They don’t allow them in cities but it’s different on farms and country estates and in some small towns.” He looked at me. “The license cost me a goddamned fortune.”

  It was a real handicap being a city boy, I thought. “Then why the act? Why the gun?”

  “This?” he asked stupidly. He reached inside his coat and dropped the pistol on the floor; it made a light thudding sound and bounced, a pot-metal toy. “The danger, it’s the sense of danger, it’s part of the sales pitch.” He wanted to be angry now but he had been frightened too badly and couldn’t quite make it. “The customers pay a lot of dough, they want a little drama. That’s why—you know—the peephole and everything.” He took a deep breath and when he exhaled it came out as a giggle, an incongruous sound from the big man. I found myself hoping he didn’t have a heart condition. “I’m well known,” he said defensively. “I take ads ”

  “The club,” I said. “It’s illegal.”

  Even if it was weak, his smile was genuine and then the score became crystal clear. The club was like a speakeasy during the Depression, with half the judges and politicians in town belonging to it. Why not? Somebody older wouldn’t have my bias . . . Pearson’s address book had been all last names and initials but I had never connected any of them to anybody prominent; I hadn’t been around enough to know what connection to make.

  I waved Ellis back to the workbench and stared glumly at the group. The mechanic I had frightened with the Mark II had a spreading stain across the front of his pants and I felt sorry for him momentarily.

  Then I started to feel sorry for myself. Monte should have given me a longer briefing, or maybe assigned another Investigator to go with me, but he had been too sick and too wrapped up with the politics of it all. So I had gone off half-cocked and come up with nothing but a potential lawsuit for Air Central that would probably amount to a million dollars by the time Ellis got through with me.

  It was a black day inside as well as out.

  I holed up in a bar during the middle part of the even
ing, which was probably the smartest thing I could have done. Despite their masks, people on the street had started to retch and vomit and I could feel my own nausea grow with every step. I saw one man try and strike a match to read a street sign; it wouldn’t stay lit, there simply wasn’t enough oxygen in the air. The ambulance sirens were a steady wail now and I knew it was going to be a tough night for heart cases. They’d be going like flies before morning, I thought . . .

  Another customer slammed through the door, wheezing and coughing and taking huge gulps of the machine-pure air of the bar. I ordered another drink and tried to shut out the sound; it was too reminiscent of Monte hacking and coughing behind his desk at work.

  And come morning, Monte might be out of a job, I thought. I for certain would be; I had loused up in a way that would cost the department money—the unforgivable sin in the eyes of the politicians.

  I downed half my drink and started mentally reviewing the events of the day, giving myself a passing score only on figuring out that Pearson had had a stash. I hadn’t known about Ellis’s operation, which in one sense wasn’t surprising. Nobody was going to drive something that looked like an old gasoline-burner around a city—the flatlanders would stone him to death.

  But somebody still had a car, I thought. Somebody who was rich and immune from prosecution and a real nut about cars in the first place . . . But it kept sliding away from me. Really rich men were too much in the public eye, ditto politicians. They’d be washed up politically if anybody ever found out. If nothing else, some poor bastard like the one at the end of the bar trying to flush out his lungs would assassinate him.

  Somebody with money, but not too much. Somebody who was a car nut—they’d have to be to take the risks. And somebody for whom those risks were absolutely minimal . . .

  And then the lightbulb flashed on above my head, just like in the old cartoons. I wasn’t dead certain I was right but I was willing to stake my life on it—and it was possible I might end up doing just that.

  I slipped on a mask and almost ran out of the bar. Once outside, I sympathized with the guy who had just come in and who had given me a horrified look as I plunged out into the darkness.